Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Countdown till Goodbye

Collin

I was brushing my teeth in the tiny hotel bathroom when I heard a knock at the door.

Not the soft kind, either. It was sharp, like someone with somewhere to be. Like someone who didn't care what time it was or how late you'd stayed up tracing the outline of someone's smile in the dark.

I wiped my mouth, peeked out into the room. Billie was still asleep - arm tossed over his face, legs tangled in the sheets like he'd wrestled with them and lost. I crossed the room in my socks and cracked the door open.

A woman stood there.

Late twenties, maybe. Long coat, clipboard in one hand, cell phone in the other. She looked me up and down - unbrushed hair, Joy Division tee, sleepy eyes and smiled. It wasn't warm.

"I'm looking for Billie Joe Armstrong."

I blinked. "He's - uh - still sleeping. Who are you?"

"Liz. From Reprise. I handle the press schedule."

Oh.

I opened the door wider without really thinking and called over my shoulder, "Billie?"

He groaned from the bed. "Is the building on fire?"

"Nope. Just the label."

That got him moving.

Ten minutes later, we were in the parking lot. Liz had pulled Billie aside, her voice low but fast, rattling off names and times. He was nodding, but I could see the lines set in his jaw, the little twitch he got when he was trying not to snap.

I waited by the truck, leaning against the warm metal. Watching.

When he finally came over, I offered him a sip from the gas station coffee I'd bought earlier. He took it wordlessly.

"Everything okay?"

He nodded. "Just label bullshit."

"You sure?"

Another pause. He ran a hand through his hair. "They want a photographer to meet us in El Paso. Some fluff piece. 'Young rebels of punk rock' or whatever the hell."

I smiled, a little. "Sounds like a circus."

He glanced at me, serious now. "It is. And sometimes I forget you're standing under the tent."

That stung. Not in a mean way. Just in the way where someone says something you weren't ready to hear. Or maybe something you'd already known and were trying to forget.

"Do you want me not to be?" I asked quietly.

His eyes flashed. "No. No. That's not what I meant. It's just..."

He sighed, hands gripping the edge of the truck bed.

"You make it feel real. All of this. The music. The weird nights. The motel floors and the postcards and the merch tables. You make it make sense. And then someone from the label shows up and I remember it's not just ours. It never really was."

I didn't say anything. Just stepped a little closer.

He looked down at his shoes. "I'm scared they'll ruin it."

"You mean the band?"

He shook his head. "No. I mean this. You and me. Whatever the hell this is. They'll call it a phase. A footnote. Something they can edit out in the liner notes."

I reached up, brushing my fingers along his wrist.

"Then don't let them."

He didn't answer right away.